


Knitting dreams

by Ray_Murata



Series: tête-à-tête [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:52:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ray_Murata/pseuds/Ray_Murata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris' reading is already good enough to dispense lessons, but what better pretense do they have to keep up their regular meetings and muse about their not so ordinary lives? Hawke is worried about Orana, Fenris is worried about Varania. Most of the things that should be said are left unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knitting dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by some of the things Hawke says when you click the several objects along his mansion.  
> Mostly canon compliant (act III, before "Alone"). A little bit of sexual tension.

“Orana says she’d like to play us a few tunes later tonight,” Hawke informs as he walks back to his chamber, an apple in each hand. Fenris doesn't need to look up to notice the swagger and the swinging of the man’s walk - He feels it. “I should thank you for helping me choose a new lute. I’ve never seen her that happy.”

“Always a pleasure,” the elf offers, the corner of his lips curving slightly upwards. He is sitting on the desk, one leg up, an arm around his own knee while with the other hand he flips through the pages of his hosts’ journal. By its side “The Black Fox” lies open, yet casually forgotten. He can’t help it that Hawke’s personal account of their not-so-ordinary little lives is far more interesting than Remi Vascal’s. There’s also a guilty pleasure in appreciating the man’s handwriting, even if he has countless parchments filled with it in his borrowed mansion. He’s gotten pretty good at reading and they both know lessons are no longer needed, yet neither of them has so much as faintly suggested ceasing their regular meetings. Not even once. And thus Fenris and Hawke both continue to travel back and forth between Hightown estates under that convenient pretense.

“She won’t agree to play at the Hanged Man again,” Hawke mentions as he sits down on the edge of the canopy. His amber eyes rest on the elf’s figure.

“Given what happened the last time, it’s hardly a surprise,” Fenris reasons idly, back still turned to the other, head bent down as he attempts to read and converse at the same time. 

Hawke chuckles, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t exactly say a few cheers and drunken compliments are particularly traumatic,” the man protests light-heartedly. “People liked her music.”

“Leave it be, Hawke, if it’s too much for her,” the elf finally raises his head from the memoirs and turns his body around to look at Hawke. He feels relaxed around his friend, even if it’s difficult for him to show it. Somehow he thinks the man knows.

“Catch it,” Garrett cautions before throwing one of the apples on the elf’s direction. Fenris grabs the fruit with one hand and gives it a long stare with knitted brows. There is something homely about apples that he cannot exactly pinpoint. Sadly, it is probably another lost memory he’ll never reclaim. “What’s the matter? A maggot in yours?”

“No, nothing.” Fenris shakes his head, his face relaxes a little bit, but still shows little emotion. He takes a bite of the fruit and chews it down. “I just… I like apples.”

Hawke’s eyes brighten childishly. “I know,” he admits then jokes. “Just not as much as you like grapes. Rather, grape juice, fermented, bottled.”

Fenris cracks an open-mouthed laugh. “You'd think that...” He tilts his head a bit and snorts while chewing down another bite of the red fruit. "I did empty out Danarius' cellar," he'd taken pleasure in that too, way beyond the savoring of the many fancy wine brands. A strange and personal, yet satisfactory outline of revenge - Usurping the house his former master had usurped, getting plastered on his expense.

"I still have that one Aggregio Pavali," Hawke mentions and Fenris’ eyes beam. He remembers giving his friend one of the six bottles of Danarius’ cellar’s finest - It’s been four years since, maybe more. “I wasn’t exactly eager to drink slaves’ blood and tears,” he teases, shaking his head, reminiscing something Fenris himself had once said. "But we should drink it some day. Maybe today?” 

“Tempting.” It’s just a friendly invitation, Fenris tells himself before he can read any more into it. An invisible hand clenches at his heart, but he’s used to pain. As far as his memory stretches, his life’s never been without it - And it never will, thanks to the Lyrium markings on his flesh. "But you should save it for a special occasion," he suggests plainly. “Perhaps when I finally cover Danarius in six feet.”

“One bottle will be far too little to celebrate _that_.” 

Fenris can barely keep his lips from twitching upwards. The ex-slave has never thought too hard about the future before, but now he has a life and wills of his own and he catches himself knitting dreams. He thinks of Varania and the letters he's sent out to Minrathous. He's been waiting for a reply for so many weeks now it's excruciating. Every morning he checks for mail, every night he pictures Varania behind closed eyes. He can't remember her face so he entertains himself with giving her different looks. Do they even resemble one another?

He doesn't want to feed expectation - He's still a fugitive, still a lowlife squatting in Hightown. Above all, his sister could still be a trap fabricated by Hadriana and Danarius, but if there's even a small chance of a family to reclaim, that'd be something to celebrate, more so than his former master’s long-awaited demise. 

Anxiety has been eating him up.

No matter how hard he tries, Fenris can't get it out of his mind. He wants to tell Hawke, but it's not the right moment yet. He wants to thank Hawke, too. He'd never have trusted anyone but himself to write those letters, and it was the human man who'd made it possible.

Quietness has fallen peacefully between them. The chewing of crunchy apples is the only sound that breaks the silence. There's a calm. A complicity. If anyone asks, they call it friendship, but no one believes them. Fenris doesn't know what they have, but he cherishes it. He’d cherish it even more if he could go back and keep himself from wrecking the chance he had with Hawke.

For years he's felt like a fool, pushed the man away, tried to make himself hated. Hawke deserved someone less tainted, less shattered, less bitter. Someone who was ready to fall into his broad arms, unlike him. As much as the elf wanted it, it was too much. And yet like weed his feelings still grew over the years, and like moss Hawke stuck around. 

For a moment he holds entrapping amber eyes in his own, but he averts the gaze and shuts his eyes. Behind closed eyelids he relives the night they shared. He regrets leaving almost as much as he hates not being able to walk the short distance between them now. He feels readier, but the shadow of his former master towers over him. In all the years on the run, the elf didn't know if he could ever be free, or even what that meant. Today he thinks he has a pretty good idea, but freedom will never be his for as long as Danarius lives. 

Perhaps when that is done he'll be able to reach for Hawke and apologize for leaving… Maybe he’ll muster up the courage to ask for another chance, if it’s not too late then.

"These days, I’ve been thinking… I mean, I can understand not being ready, but it's been three years," Hawke begins, brows knitting. For a moment Fenris is certain he's talking about him, about them. He feels his cheeks burn and lowers his head down to watch his own feet, but the other man seems oblivious to his embarrassment. “I just wish Orana would at least make friends. Remember when Merrill tried taking her to the alienage? It was a bit disastrous at first, but she made a couple of acquaintances... It was going well, but then, when..." Hawke's voice trembles ever so slightly and he coughs before continuing. "After mother was taken, she locked herself up again. She still got her duties done, but she avoided me entirely."

"Survival instinct," the elf offers curtly. It's a feeling he knows all too well. Orana was used to a magister master who would probably have blamed her for the slightest misstep or sacrificed her to demons to seek revenge. Even if Hawke is a gentle boss, Fenris understands the girl perfectly. It was no surprise to him that she would have been as frightened of the mages outside as of the ones inside the house.

“Hmpf,” Hawke snorts while finishing up his own apple. He throws what was left out and then lies down on the bed. “It isn’t a very good survival instinct if she can’t even see herself out of this house.” He sits up again. Fenris is looking down at his bare feet and Garrett’s eyes follow that same direction, observing the movement of Lyrium-lined toes. “She’ll have to walk on her own two feet eventually.”

“You’ve done more for Orana than anyone, Hawke, but some steps she must take on her own.” 

Garrett gives her days-off she never takes and he had Bhodan teach her how to save up and invest her coin, all to little avail. Some months earlier, the man also decided that Orana should learn valuable skills other than just cleaning and cooking. Inspired by the information he’d gotten on Varania’s whereabouts and possible profession, Fenris suggested tailoring and Hawke had a tailor come to his estate to personally instruct the servant on the trade. 

Instead of being grateful, however, Orana broke down in tears thinking that her boss wanted her gone. Being both an elf and an ex-slave, Fenris tried sharing his experience and putting some sense into her head, but he only managed to scare her further. It’d have been a complete disaster if Aveline and Donnic hadn’t interferred. 

It didn’t come as a surprise to anyone that him and Garrett both fared rather poorly with words - One’s too bitterly honest, the other’s untimely jestful - and even worse in unraveling delicate emotional knots.

It is no wonder their own tension hovers between them, unresolved, unmentioned.

“I have a knack for meddling,” Hawke argues playfully, shifting on the bed. 

“You do.” the elf agrees, but his voice is muffled by the barking of the Mabari hound trotting into the room and leaping on his direction. He stretches his hands out to pat the dog, then caresses the soft fur from the top of its head to the middle of its back. It wiggles its tail and barks happily under the attention. Fenris’ face shows no emotion at all, but inside he rejoices every time Garrett’s Mabari shows up.

“Huh, it’d be nice to be that dog,” Hawke comments lazily, his amber eyes longingly watching the scene. Fenris turns his head to look at his friend - He can’t decide if the man is just being a playful flirt, as usual, or if he means anything by what he said. Probably the former. “He always finds you when you’re in the house.”

“I told you it’s an intelligent breed,” the elf teases. The tips of his sharp ears twitch involuntarily as he continues to play with the hound. “I wish I’d been here to witness him bite the mage.”

“Let me guess,” Hawke begins, rolling his eyes. “Varric told you he bit Ander’s shin deep to the bone and nearly pulled the leg out? He probably said he had to stun the dog while Anders bled all over my study? And that we had to give him brandy to keep him awake while he heroically healed himself?” 

“Believe it or not, it was even more dramatic than that,” he admits. Of course he knows better than to trust any exaggerated story Varric tells him. On the other hand, they have been through so many absurd journeys already he reckons there’s always a small chance at least part of the dwarf’s tales are true. He frowns at the dog. “But you did bite the mage, didn’t you?”

“He tried,” Hawke clarifies. “I think he sniffed cat smell from Anders, perhaps?”

“Or maybe he sniffed demon.” Fenris himself barks as he pats the hound again. “Smart dog. Keep it up. One abomination at a time.”

“Speaking of Anders, he’s been on the edge lately. I wonder what’s going on.”

Fenris wants to tell Hawke not to trust the mage, but he doesn’t want to repeat himself. He’s said that several times already. If it’s true that Anders could once control the demon within, it is clear to him that it is no longer the case now. He’s seen good mages succumbing before, he knows the signs and he’s spotted them in Anders. Even if Sebastian has suggested giving the mage in to the templars, the elf would never risk betraying Hawke’s trust. At this point there’s little he can do but keep watch and make sure whatever happens won’t harm his friend. 

“He’s stacked my house with copies of his manifesto again. This version is a lot more radical than the other one, too,” the human comments. As usual, their reading lessons turn into long conversations about anything, everything or nothing at all. Some days, reading is the only thing they don’t talk about. “You’d be pleased to know the dog loves tearing them up. He found one in my bed just the other day, chewed it to pieces.” 

“In your bed?” Fenris asks sourly, lifting green eyes from the Mabari to its owner. He hates imagining the mage in Hawke’s bedroom, but the scenes come faster to his mind than his reasoning. Before he can stop it, he pictures Anders sitting next to Garrett in his bed, distilling soft, bland promises and exhaling cheap charm. The mage is an abomination, a hypocrite and a fanatic, but despite all of his faults, he’s Hawke’s friend. Also a selfless healer and a passionate and outspoken man. He’s open about his affections, especially towards Garrett, and every time he pours his cheesy feelings down the champion’s ear, purposely in public, Fenris feels a burst of arrows pierce through his chest. 

Ever since their night together, he’s been both apprehensive and scared of the day Hawke would move on to someone better. He knows he missed his chance and he’ll have to live with the man’s decisions, but he doesn’t think he can stand it if Anders is the one his friend ends up choosing. Not only would he rot in jealousy, but also fear for Hawke’s well-being. The mere thought of them together chills the elf’s spine and freezes him to the spot. 

Hawke seems to notice his unease. “I could try putting a lock in my room, but I don’t think that’d halt Varric… Or Isabela. If anything they’d think it’s a challenge.” He runs a hand through his face and shakes his head. “Maker’s breath, I need new friends. Mine are all snoops.” A short silence falls between them again while the dog falls asleep by Fenris’ feet and under his caresses. The elf looks up again when his friend brings up the reason why they are here in the first place. “Should we continue with ‘The Black fox’? Where did you stop?”

“I- Well, I was actually reading your journal,” he stutters in his confession, but despite having just commented that his friends are all too curious for their own good, Hawke doesn’t seem bugged in the slightest. 

“Varric’s taken upon himself to embellish some of it,” the man warns, standing up. 

“I did notice.” Fenris has seen the change in handwriting and storytelling in certain passages of Hawke’s memoirs which can only be attributed to Varric, but the other man seems eager to show him specific examples of it. The elf not only sees Garrett walking over to him, but he feels the man’s proximity as a heavy thickening of the air around him. When the man leans over the desk to flip through pages of the diary, he’s stiff as a statue. 

“This one’s amusing,” Hawke says, finger resting under one of Varric’s added paragraphs.

“Tonight the angst porcupine cleaned us all short of coin at Diamondback again. He’s a lucky son-of-a-bitch in cards, but unlucky in-” Fenris reads it out loud up to this point, as he usually does ever since they started the reading lessons, but he stops when his eyes glance over the next word. He gulps down and finishes the rest silently instead. ‘ _love. I do believe it is my fault and I should probably pay Varric what he lost. Or fix the elf’s luck scale before we all go bankrupt._ ’ On the corner of the same page there’s another one of Isabela’s crude drawings. He can’t be sure, but he thinks it depicts Hawke and himself in rather compromising proximity. 

“Why are you showing me this?” He asks, his face a void of emotion even if he’s a whirlwind inside. Is Hawke mocking him? He doesn’t want to relive the past, but no matter how hard he tries to banish it, it haunts him. The jokes remind him of Hadriana’s ridicules… Like a poisonous net one memory leads to another and the hair on the back of his neck bristles in horror. He feels ashamed and filthy again, branded and corrupted by Danarius’ lewd magic.

Hawke shrugs, oblivious. “I don’t know? Varric and Isabela see things through rather amusing lens, don’t you think?”

The elf stands up, breaking the painful proximity between them. “I think I should go.” He wants to get away before this turns into a conversation about that night, before Hawke can say anything else, before anything that could happen can happen. In a way, getting as far from Hawke as possible now is protecting what they have, keeping it from falling apart. If he stays, if they talk, he’ll make it worse. One of these days his temperament might push Garrett from him for good - He might have wanted that three years ago, but now the thought frightens him. Hawke is… Too important.

Hawke looks as if he is on the brink of protesting, but his hardened expression falls into sudden and submissive acceptance. 

Before the man’s entrapping eyes and witty jokes can persuade him otherwise, Fenris turns on his heels and walks out of the room.

He clearly isn’t ready yet. 

Perhaps when Danarius is dead.


End file.
